The Postulate Child
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: [Treavor and the Outsider for lordansketil on Tumblr!] Pendleton doesn't seem at all fazed by Corvo's use of black magic, and even gifts him a whalebone rune for killing Shaw; so perhaps it's not his first encounter with the Outsider...


**_A/N: _**_Also published on my Tumblr and Ao3 accounts._

* * *

Treavor finds the bone charm wrapped in cheesecloth and tucked away at the back of the cupboard.

He hears it before he sees it. It gives off a distant, low hum that tickles at his ear. It's not quite a song, but it's beautiful and enchanting and inviting. Tentatively, he reaches into the cupboard and presses two fingers to the cheesecloth bundle. The hard form of the charm is cold – so _very cold_ – and surprisingly heavy as he plucks it from where it has been hidden behind a clutch of jars.

He's in the kitchen looking for the bottle of brandy that he knows one of the cooks keeps for dessert-making when he makes the accidental discovery. All thoughts of the brandy leave his mind almost instantly, and his heart begins to race with the overwhelming secrecy and mystery of his finding. He's never seen a bone charm in real life, and has only heard stories about them; somehow, though, he's able to recognize the charm for what it is. The knowledge is instinctual and otherworldly and mildly frightening. For only a fraction of a second he forgets about the spikes of pain that needle at his temples.

There is an enormous, mottled bruise blossoming across his swollen cheek and a mess of congealed blood around his nostrils. He snuck down from his bedroom (where the twins cornered him because, they said, at dinner he kept throwing them filthy looks through the candelabra) via the servant's stairs and now rifles as silently as he can through the cabinets and cupboards. It's difficult – his hands are trembling and he can't really see in the dim lantern light – but, thankfully, there is no one around to watch him shake and sniffle and fumble.

And even if anybody _was_ around to watch him, Treavor has learned to make himself as small and as inconsequential as possible inside Pendleton Manor.

When he finally unwraps the cheesecloth, he can't help his sharp intake of breath. The charm is all smooth white bone and intricate black carvings. Its hum grows louder until it is all he can hear, drowning out his rapid breathing and the thunder of his heartbeat. And there is a soft voice, suddenly, singing in an ancient tongue that he doesn't understand, but he is soothed and reassured all the same.

Treavor holds the bone charm in his hand, laces his fingers around its narrow arms, as though it's a hand that he's holding for comfort. When the bone touches his bare skin, he feels light and safe, and the pain in his cheek and his nose fades like water swirling down the dark hole of a drain.

He hears footsteps on the servant's stairs, quickly bundles the charm away, and stuffs it into his pocket. It is suddenly warm against him, _very_warm, and he can feel how the song's pace has fallen into rhythm with the pulsing of his own blood. He turns from the cupboard just in time to see Wallace Higgins enter the kitchens.

"M'lord," the manservant says, inclining his head. His expression freezes in pity as he studies Treavor's face with barely-concealed shock.

Treavor wets his lips and tries to stand as straight as possible. "I was looking for- for some brandy," he says, thickly. His throat aches from crying. "My- my head hurts."

Wallace clucks his tongue and beckons for Treavor to follow him to the servant's washroom. There, Treavor is cleaned up with a cool cloth. His injuries are quite superficial, Wallace declares after a thorough inspection; in the morning, Wallace says, there should only be a faint bruise on his cheek and a little swelling, which will all fade in time. The manservant gives him just half an inch of brandy and then sends him upstairs to bed.

Alone in his room, Treavor ducks behind his bed – out of the line of sight of the door, just in case – and unwraps the bone charm. He brushes his finger over the streaks and etchings, wondering what they could possibly mean. They do not seem accidental, nor do they seem deliberate; they seem to just _be_, and any meaning that can be derived from them, Treavor considers, might be beyond him.

There is an overwhelming sense of the eternal and the ethereal, which he has only ever felt whilst staring into the gleaming eyes of Pendletons past, captured in timeless oil and canvas. In those moments, gazing with mingled awe and trepidation at his family's wealth of portraiture, he feels both infinite and overwhelmed. It is not an unpleasant feeling; he rather enjoys it, because it overshadows the feelings of inadequacy and fear that haunt him in the presence of his brothers, whom he knows would rather he didn't exist at _all_.

No, when he considers that he is part of such a long and ancient line, he feels purposeful and proud. The bone charm, with its unspoken history and its strange markings and its song that seems to exist only for _him_, also makes him feel purposeful and proud, though it's a more uncertain feeling, something primitive.

He's been to a few services at the Abbey. There was mostly talk of the corrupting influence of the Outsider and how the Seven Strictures should be exercised in daily life. Things carved from bone and marked with heretical symbols, he remembers the preaching overseer declaring from the lectern, are tools of the Outsider, keys by which it works its dark influence on the innocent. To own such an item is a punishable offence, and Treavor has heard of more than one lowly servant being caught practicing black magic rituals and subsequently carted away to one of the prison cells beneath the Abbey.

He is not particularly superstitious, nor is he particularly fearful of the Abbey. The lectures he and his brothers have to endure at the request of their tutors are nothing more than stories to him. He is a Pendleton, one in a long line of noblemen that dates back hundreds of years. His ancestors helped to found Dunwall. There is no way he would ever be in danger of punishment from the Abbey. He knows that Father has two or three whalebone runes in the wall safe in his study. They are heirlooms, supposedly to grant good fortune to the Pendletons and ensure that they remain prosperous, and nothing more.

But the servant who stowed this bone charm away in the kitchens is a lowly nobody, and is in real danger of being caught and tortured by the Abbey. Nobody would risk themselves over something that didn't mean anything, right? No, this bone charm _must_ be important. Otherwise, why go through all the trouble of keeping it and hiding it away?

The thought that it's not just a story – that the bone charm might actually have powers – excites Treavor.

He slips the relic beneath his pillow and falls asleep to the distant, soothing whisper of that ancient tongue. He dreams of an endless expanse of beach. The sky is grey and hazy; the ocean is dark, like ink; the sand is not sand, but rather shards of bones that crunch beneath his feet as he walks along the water's edge. As the tide swells and recedes, it leaves behind whole whalebone artefacts, each one humming their own distinct song to him, as though all vying for his attention.

Treavor can't bear to leave a single one behind.

He walks along the beach for what seems an eternity. His arms are full of charms and runes, his trousers weighed down by those that he has stuffed into his pockets. He hears a voice, its pitch and cadence matching that which sang to him in the ancient tongue, and he turns to see who else is with him on the beach.

But all he sees are swirls of purple smoke.

In the morning, he polishes the bone charm and keeps it wrapped in the cheesecloth. He can't leave it tucked under his pillow – one of the chambermaids will find it when she makes his bed. He holds the charm against his chest, relishing the way his heartbeat reflects off the smooth, carved whalebone, and paces around his room, anxious.

The charm is too precious to leave unattended, he suddenly decides. He hides it under his bed until Wallace comes to dress him, and then he unwraps it from the cheesecloth and slips its bare form into his pocket. Its weight in his trouser leg is reassuring.

At breakfast, he is entranced by the sweet berry jam that glistens in its porcelain dish. Its color is rich and dark. _Purple_. Like the smoke in his dream. He fixes his thoughts on _purple_, and the bone charm hums its assent against his leg.

Father and Lavinia (Treavor refuses to call her _Mother_) depart shortly after breakfast to conduct business in town, leaving the three Pendleton boys with their tutors. Treavor endures music lessons until noon.

His teacher taps sharply on the sheet music and says, "Focus, focus!"

Treavor can't focus. The bone charm thrums and plays its song against his leg, and he finds his fingers dancing over the harpsichord keys in a futile attempt to mimic the charm's music.

His music teacher groans in frustration and says the lesson is over.

Treavor doesn't balk at the threat the teacher makes to tell Father how unproductive he was. He leaps up from the harpsichord, runs into the hallway, and slips a hand into his pocket. His fingers brush against the charm and he feels a cold tremor run through him.

The charm deserves more than the dark interior of his pocket, he decides. It's an ancient tool, carved from the bones of a great beast. It needs to be revered as such.

He lets himself into Lavinia's dressing room and goes to her wardrobe. He flicks through her jackets and shirts and dresses, nose wrinkling. Some of the finer, more exquisite pieces belong to Mother – his _real_ mother – but some of them are new. Gifts from Father.

Then, he spies an evening jacket made of rich purple velvet and adorned with buttons crafted from Pendleton silver. His fingers brush against the velvet, then slide against the fine satin lining of the jacket.

In his pocket, the bone charm hums, as if pleased.

Treavor steals the jacket and races to his bedroom.

He sits on the floor and nestles the charm within soft folds of velvet. It looks perfect. At home. Better than the silly cheesecloth. With much grunting and tugging, he rips a hole in the lining of the jacket and slips the bone charm inside. He crushes the jacket to his chest.

Later, he decides, he'll ask one of the maids for a pair of scissors, and he'll cut away the jacket's sleeves and collar, and fashion a little pouch for the charm. An exquisite pouch of fine velvet and satin, adorned with silver buttons that are worth more than the servants make in a _year_. A most appropriate home for the ancient artefact.

It will serve Lavinia right, he thinks, and the bone charm thrums in response to the cold curling of his lips.

* * *

Treavor sleeps with the pouch nestled against his chest. The bone charm throbs in tandem with the beating of his heart until it fills the large, blank expanse of unconsciousness. His thoughts roil and swirl, unsettled. He clutches tightly at the bone charm, blindly turns his head to the sound of that incomprehensible ancient voice that speaks directly against his ear.

The air smells like brine.

He dreams that Pendleton Manor is in fragments, chunks of brickwork and meticulous gardens and veined Tyvian marble that float and drift and hover as though on invisible strings. He stands in a hallway that stretches on forever. The chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling tinkle and dance in a faint breeze.

Beside him is a side-table adorned with a porcelain vase that holds a bunch of pale lilies. He _hates_ the smell of lilies and, in a childish fit of anger, he sweeps the vase off the side-table with a swipe of his arm. The porcelain shatters and the flowers whisper against the smooth runner that snakes along the length of the hall.

Treavor watches, then, as the water is sucked out of the runner and drips towards the ceiling in a steady stream.

Apprehension grips him because he suddenly remembers that water dripping _up_ is one of the hallmarks of the Outsider and, although he isn't scared, he's overwhelmed. He doesn't want _this_ – he doesn't want ancient gods and black magic. He just wants the security that the bone charm brings, and the power that the secret of it makes him feel.

As if to reassure him, the bone charm begins to sing to him. It's a gentle melody, soothing and soft. He didn't realize he was holding the charm until it started to vibrate against his palm, but he doesn't question where it came from or how. He lifts it to eye-level in both hands and watches as the black etchings wriggle and dance, as though alive.

He exhales in relief and begins to move along the length of the corridor.

The bone charm guides him with its song. When he passes certain doors along the hallway, the song fades into nothing, and he knows not to enter those rooms. Sometimes, though, the song grows strong, loud, _deafening_, as he reaches for certain doorknobs.

When he steps into a room, he is confronted by eerie blue light and a yawning abyss that threatens to swallow him if he moves too closely to the edge of the room. He peers into the distance (because there is no wall shielding him from the vast emptiness that stretches on ahead) and he sees faint shapes hanging in the sky. Chunks of rock and tight, winding staircases the spiral to the sky, whirlpools that rage in well-contained spheres.

When he stares into the abyss, he feels suffocated by that overwhelming sense of the eternal and the ethereal. If he stares too long as the fragments of reality which defy belief, he's afraid he'll go mad.

He continues to move along the corridor. The song of the bone charm is broken by the roar of water, and the deep mournful bellows of a great leviathan, and the unnerving sounds of something grinding. Images of bones salvaged from the decaying corpses of whales that beach themselves in their animal stupidity flash in his mind's eye; he is also overcome by the sensations of his hands (at once his own and _not _his own) taking knives to those bones to carve and whittle. His nostrils fill with the scent of fat, of rot, of brine, of blood.

He frowns, winces, shakes his head to dislodge the intrusive thoughts.

The end of the hallway rushes up to him, as though time means nothing and he managed to traverse such a great distance in the blink of an eye. There is a plain door before him, slightly ajar. The bone charm sings more quickly, turning warm against his skin. He extends a hand and gently nudges the door open.

Behind it is a parlour, and it looks relatively intact. A fire crackles in the hearth and there is a woman sitting on a low sofa with scrolled armrests. Her face is shadowed, blank, but he knows that she is his mother. His _real_ mother. Suddenly, the embers in the hearth flare and snap, illuminating her in a halo of light. He recognizes her light brown hair set with small pearl ornaments and her pale blue eyes and her small, sad mouth from the portrait – the only reminder that she ever existed – that hangs in the gallery.

"My poor darling," she coos, and he realizes that she is speaking to a rather large bundle on her lap.

Treavor drops the bone charm, though it does not fall. It merely hangs in the air, as though waiting for him. He takes a step into the parlour and almost immediately he feels something sharp and warm cut into his hand. He yelps and stumbles backwards.

He raises his hand and spies two pinpricks, side-by-side, in his pale skin. They ooze blood.

Heart racing, he looks about for the unknown attacker, but there is only Mother, and she hasn't moved from the sofa.

A wet, harrowing cry rises from the bundle. A loud, long, _pathetic_ wailing that makes him flinch. A child's cry of pain and terror. Suddenly, there is a crib in his line of vision. He's not sure if it only just appeared or if he never noticed it until now. If he thinks too long on the mechanics of this world, he reminds himself, he will go mad.

Mother makes soothing noises to the child, trying to hush it. She effortlessly gathers the child in her arms, and stands and sways, still murmuring softly.

The child continues to cry.

She is crying too, Treavor realizes. He spies the shine of tears on her cheeks when the firelight catches on her face in just the right way. He aches, then; he can't bear to see her like this. He doesn't want _this _to be the only way he can remember her. He steps into the parlour again because he wants to go to her.

There are two more sharp pains, one in his cheek and the other in his neck. He cries out and throws himself to the carpet, curling up – as he has learned to do with the twins whenever they hurt him. He waits for more pain but nothing comes. Slowly, he straightens out and touches his cheek. He can feel two small holes, side-by-side, in his skin. Just like in his hand. Just like in his neck, when he touches himself there too.

He looks, horrified, at his fingertips, which are spotted with red.

"My poor darling Treavor," Mother murmurs, nuzzling the child's face.

An arm, small and thin, curls itself around her shoulder, little fingers clawing desperately into the sleeve of her jacket. The arm is bare and Treavor sees several pairs of pinprick holes – just like the ones appearing in his skin. On the child, the marks are angry and red and puffy; some of them bleed, and others ooze pus.

Pain wracks him, then, making him double over and sob. There is unbearable, searing heat on the surface of his skin, and cold numbness in his limbs, and he begins to twitch and writhe, violently. He tries to leave the parlour, to escape whatever _nightmare_ this is, but he can't. He is overcome by more sharp stings on his face, his arms, his legs, his chest, his back. Twin sets of white-hot needles that make him scream.

_Snake bites_.

He screams and five-year-old Treavor screams and Mother's attempts at soothing him become desperate. Her voice is a whimper, low and soft, and she speaks in-between shuddering sobs that make her shoulders heave: "Don't cry, Treavor, _please_ don't cry. Mother's here. Don't cry."

He blinks at her through watering eyes; on the carpet, several glistening forms are stretched out. They're long and thin, tapered to a point at one end. The vipers, or what's left of them. Terror rises, bitter, in his throat. He flinches and bats at the invisible snakes that continue to bite at him. He grows dizzy and faint and he tries to focus on Mother's soothing words and the phantom press of her hand on his skin as she kisses his forehead and tells him to _be alright, please just be alright_.

On the other side of the parlour, a door opens, and two identical silhouettes stand there. It's Morgan and Custis, Treavor realizes, and they're holding hands. Even though they are shadowed, he can see how their eyes glitter as they watch Mother hold and calm him.

"G-go _away_!" Treavor cries to the twins.

They don't.

_They hated you after this moment_, says a cold voice against his ear. It is the voice that sings to him and the voice from his dream on the beach, but this time it doesn't offer him comfort or reassurance. This time it is dark and imperious and malevolent.

_They hated you from the moment you drew breath, because you were _not supposed to be_. For four years it was just Morgan and Custis. The Pendleton heirs. One soul divided between two bodies. They had only to share with themselves, and everybody adored them. Then, you were born. You were like a third leg to them, abhorrent and unnecessary and unwanted._

_They often plotted how best to get rid of you, you know. But you were never alone, until the nurse decided to wander off for just a moment. They took their chance then. They were certain you'd be dead within an hour, if not from the snakes then from the suffocation. You'd be dead and everything would be restored to its natural state. Just Morgan and Custis and nobody else. Everything for them, nothing shared with an intruder._

_But you lived. You refused to die, despite the poison in your blood. You clung to life, just as you cling to your mother's body now. You lived, despite what everyone thought. Lady Pendleton despaired for several days while you grew sicker and sicker; she even prepared your funerary urn. And your brothers were delighted._

_They took your thriving as a slight. You defied_ _their wishes by continuing to live. Your defiance displeased them. They are so used to getting _everything_ that they want, as Lord Pendleton has trained them to expect. They are so used to _obedience_ and _submission,_ but you refused to obey and you refused to submit. You were stronger than they gave you credit for._

_And they will punish you for it until they draw their last breath._

Treavor sobs as cold breath puffs against his ear. His body burns and aches, limbs thrashing, spine arching, threatening to snap. The pain is crippling. He tries to focus on Mother, who sobs too, burying her face in his neck as she hugs him to her chest, but she is growing distant and suddenly his ears are full of the roar of water and the droning music of the bone charm–

He wakes in his bed, sweating and crying. The charm, still in its pouch, is hot. He throws it to the foot of his bed and inspects his body for snake bites. There are none. He swipes his fingers over his cheeks, his neck, inside the open collar of his pajamas, under his sleeves, but his fingers come away clean.

Gasping for air, he sags against his pillows and squeezes his eyes shut. He bites down hard on his lip to stifle his sobs until they turn to soft, spasming hiccups inside his chest. He wipes his cheeks clean of tears using the cuff of his shirt.

He considers going downstairs in search of Wallace; he knows that if he went to the servant's quarters and tugged on Wallace's sleeve, he would sit up with Treavor in the kitchens and maybe warm him some milk and soothe him until he is ready to return to bed.

But the bone charm sings to him, hesitantly and invitingly, as though it's sorry for the nightmare.

Treavor snatches the pouch up from the foot of the bed and nestles it against his chest. Sniffling, he burrows down beneath his bedcovers and closes his eyes.

He sleeps, and he dreams again that the family home is in fragments that hang in the eerie emptiness. He finds the parlour where Mother is, holding her sickly son, but he knows not to cross the threshold. He simply sits, cross-legged, on the floor and watches her coo and hold him and kiss him.

It is, he realizes with a despairing ache inside his chest, the only affection he's going to get inside Pendleton Manor.

* * *

Lord Pendleton and his three sons travel down to the harbor one morning to watch the Pendleton ships arrive back from their trip to the Continent. They are laden with Pandyssian natives, but also exotic plants and animals and strange artefacts that the Academy of Natural Philosophy pays a great deal for.

Morgan and Custis watch, enraptured, as the gamekeepers for the hunting estate inspect the wild beasts as they are led off the ships and to waiting vehicles to be carted outside of the city. There are hooved creatures with long, twisting horns and large cats with patterned fur and boars with large tusks that look like they could tear a man's torso to bloody ribbons. The twins are already staking their claim to certain animals, and planning where to hang the heads inside Pendleton Manor.

Treavor isn't old enough to hunt, but he's gone to Pendleton Hall, well outside of Dunwall, several times because Father and Lavinia think the fresh air does him good. The last time they were all there, though, the twins locked him in the game closet, with all the hanging carcasses, and nobody found him until one of the cooks went looking for venison to prepare for dinner.

He stands a little way off from Father and the twins. The Pendleton ships are grand and he is most impressed, but his brothers have made it very clear that he is not welcome at the excursion, so he does his best to remain silent and to make himself as invisible as possible. It's very easy, as no one tries to engage him in conversation about anything.

Overhead, the sky is clear and blue. Gulls swoop in lazy circles. The sun is large and hot, and Treavor can feel his skin burning. His eyes are aching. He reaches up with a hand to shield his face and his shoulder groans and creaks in protest; Custis dislocated it the other week and, though Wallace set it very carefully, it still hurts.

With a cautious glance at Father and the twins, he slinks away and wanders along one of the wharves. It's strewn with crates and ropes. A handful of dockhands and stevedores mill about, smoking and looking tough. They are very intimidating and though he knows they won't hurt him, he avoids them.

He feels very vulnerable today. He had to leave the bone charm at home, stuffed in its pouch and hidden under his bed, because he doesn't trust the twins not to hold him by his ankles and dangle him over the water 'for fun'. The thought of losing the bone charm into the sea, or – worse – someone finding it on his person, makes him mildly nauseous. He misses it, though. He misses its familiar weight in his pocket and its warmth and the reassuring song it hums for his ears only.

There is a set of stone steps leading down to a small makeshift quay for rowboats. The dock is narrow and the tide has heaped slimy sea plants onto the rough stone. Treavor toes idly at the dark clumps, nose wrinkling. Sometimes at dinner, the cooks serve strips of fish on beds of seaweed. He can't really fathom that the ugly, slimy tangle is worthy of a Pendleton's dinner plate.

He sighs, and turns to go, but something stops him. It's a noise, a low discordant droning that hurts his ears. It grows louder as he picks his way slowly down the dock, to the end, where a couple of buoys are tied and bob gently in the water. He cautiously leans forward and peers into the water, which is dark and glassy. Long pale forms dart just below the water's surface. They startle him, like ghosts in a shadowy dreamscape, and he can't help but gasp.

He is thankful the twins, or Father, aren't around to tease him about being so easily frightened.

The low droning noise does not abate. Frowning, he kneels on the edge of the dock and stares into the water. He doesn't know what he's looking for exactly, only that he's _looking_. His eyes scan the water intently. He spies it, then: a pale shape that floats towards him as if borne on some invisible platter. When the shape breaks the water's surface, Treavor is delighted to see that it is another bone charm.

It's not nearly as beautiful as the one he has hidden in his room, though. No, this bone charm is slightly discoloured, grey and brown in some areas; its arms are thin, asymmetrical; there are small coils of wire and tatters of leather hanging from its body, as though it was once attached to something, but was forcibly ripped away. Tentatively, one hand braced firmly on the dock to help keep his balance, he leans forward and plucks the bone charm from the water.

Its droning grows louder, deafening. He winces as a two cold spikes of pain slide into his temples, making him momentarily blind. He shifts back on his haunches and, blinking through the pain, studies the bone charm up close. There are black etchings carved into it, not nearly as elegant or neat as in the other ornament. In fact they're quite crude.

Again, he feels that strange sense of the eternal and the ethereal, twined together and stretching on, forever. This time, though, he feels certain parts of him – parts that he's learned to keep hidden and suppressed inside Pendleton Manor – stir. Anger. A thirst for violence. Something vengeful. He is mildly horrified with himself, and equally intrigued. The new bone charm makes those feelings seem valid and worthy.

_Appropriate_.

Slowly, he trails a finger along one thin, disfigured arm. The bone is worn away in places, splintered in others. The pad of his finger catches on a sharp edge and slices neatly, but shallowly, into his flesh. He gasps and jerks his arm back and immediately puts his finger in his mouth; he sucks on it, tasting the salt and iron of his blood, which is not unfamiliar to him.

He feels a surge of rage towards the bone charm. It _hurt_ him! The other charm is smooth and kind but this one is crude and ugly and it _hurt him_. He glares at it. There is a small smear of his blood, red and shining, on the off-white bone. The sight of it, and the fact that the bleeding of his finger has not yet stopped, makes him mildly nauseous. He withdraws his finger from between his lips and presses his thumb against the small cut.

And as he continues to stare at the bone charm, he watches how his blood is absorbed by the bone, quickly, like water on dry soil, leaving no sign of its presence.

His eyes widen. Hands trembling, he holds his injured finger over the charm and lets a drop of blood plop onto the bone. It sits there, sliding along the curved surface of the charm, and then it too is soaked up. The surface of the bone charm is once again pristine. It's almost _thirsty_for his blood, and this, while startling and strange, intrigues Treavor. He feels oddly useful. He pockets the ornament and keeps his injured finger pressed against it, as though feeding it.

The dissonant song of the bone charm turns to a pleased hum.

* * *

When he sleeps with the new bone charm nestled against his chest, his dreams are vastly different than those brought on by the first charm.

He dreams that he is at Pendleton Manor. Through the windows, he can see how the Void rages around him; swirling vortexes of cold water twist and curl in the pale blue emptiness, and great silhouettes hang in the air and bellow. Streams of water, originating from between the polished floorboards, trickle steadily towards the ceiling. Fragments of brick break away from the chunks that tumble, aimlessly, through the yawning abyss.

Treavor does not feel frightened or alone or overwhelmed. He does not fear phantom vipers or his Mother's sorrow. No, the tone of this dream feels entirely different. It is linked, somehow, to the crude bone charm, which he holds in his hand. The coils of wire and tags of ratty leather feel ugly against his palm, but the sensation is quickly swept away by the staggering_ happiness_ of his dream.

He feels older, stronger. He knows through some inherent instinct that he is _Lord Pendleton_ and that everything is his. He brims with confidence and power and entitlement. He strides through the corridors of Pendleton Manor, which are decorated as he pleases. There are portraits of him in gilt frames. He is dressed in finery, styled in various distinguished poses. His face, however, is a shadowed blur.

This is disconcerting, but before he can focus on the rough smears of black that make up his face, he is drawn further down the corridor, to one of the spiralling staircases that he recognizes from his previous dream. Lanterns, hanging at intervals along the twist of the staircase, give off bright purple light. The light, however, is not warm; when he slips his hand into the bright, violet shafts, his skin stings with such cold that he worries he won't ever feel warmth again.

At the top of the staircase, a wide well-furnished platform stretches on. He only fleetingly recognizes it as a place from his family home, but whether it's from the hunting estate or Pendleton Manor, he doesn't know. His faculties of recollection have been deadened, somewhat, and all he is left with is a faint impression that skirts around the edges of his consciousness, timid and weak.

Bone charm in hand, he paces along the platform until he becomes acutely aware of a section of manor house that hangs above him, tilted onto its side. There is a high, arched window open above him and, without hesitation, he jumps. Everything becomes dark and wild and he closes his eyes against a rising sense of cold, and then his feet hit firm ground and he dares to study his surroundings. He peers through the high, arched window that is open just to his right, and he sees the platform on which he was standing mere moments ago – though, from where he is inside the manor, it looks less a platform and more a wall, strewn with furniture and useless fixtures that are secure, even on the precarious angle.

The bone charm pulls on him, straining against his fingers. It urges him forward. His legs obey, and carry him out of the manor house to a long stretch of hovering fragments and spurs of ancient rock, like stepping stones across a river.

Treavor crosses the Void with ease, his feet only just touching the rock before he leaps up again, arms pinwheeling for balance. When he comes to the last chunk of rock (which is much larger than the others, a whole world in its own right) he sees Morgan and Custis, waiting for him.

They're holding hands, the fingers of Custis' left threaded tightly with the fingers of Morgan's right.

Almost instantly, Treavor reels. He seeks an escape, but the path of rocks on which he crossed has already floated away. He is stranded.

The twins, their faces consumed by dark eyes and sharp-toothed grins, advance on him. They threaten to rip his limbs off, to kick his face in, to throw him into the infinite abyss and let him tumble until he fades into nothing and is readily forgotten by his family.

He starts crying, backpedalling. He begs the twins to _leave me alone_, _just_ _leave me alone!_

_Why_ are they here? _Why_ are they in his dream? _Why_ are they so insidious, so evil? This was supposed to be _his_ dream – a dream where he was _everything_, the _lord_ of Pendleton Manor, powerful and entitled, the corridors of the ancestral home adorned with _his_ portrait and no one else's – so _why_ are the twins here?

The throbbing of the bone charm falls into pace with the panicked beating of his heart, and he crushes the artefact to his chest. Suddenly, he's no longer older or stronger, but weak and small. He falls on his ass, scrambles backwards. He knows that, unless his brothers relent, he will hit the edge of the rock and after that he'll tumble into the abyss.

In a gesture of complete and utter helplessness, he puts out a hand. He screams. The bone charm sizzles and burns him and then–

The twins ignite in two identical spurts of fire. They howl and twist and dance, like lit candle wicks, and soon they are nothing but ash.

Blinking through his tears, Treavor dares to look. He is, at first, horrified.

And then he is relieved.

And then he is gleeful.

Several more fragmented paths extend towards him, then, and he travels along each one. He comes across the twins on several more occasions, and he does not cry or scream or beg them to leave him alone. With the bone charm clutched firmly to his chest, he kills the twins with little more than a wave of his hand.

They drown in a torrent of rushing water, clutching desperately at their throats for air. They suffocate in a haze of purple smoke, coughing and spluttering and choking. They are hung by their necks from invisible nooses until their eyes bulge and they turn blue. They are devoured by large, swarming rats that leave nothing but glistening entrails. They are attacked by unseen enemies with large knives that cut at them and make them bleed until they are pale and twitching in their death throes.

Treavor kills his brothers a hundred times over and when he finally stands, alone, on a floating chunk of pale stone, the feelings of power and entitlement and strength return to him. He doesn't feel at all sad that they're dead; they deserve death, for how utterly wicked they are.

In his hands, the bone charm suddenly runs cold, as though a drain has sucked away its warmth. It is a cold so consuming and painful that Treavor cries out and tries to throw the bone charm away. But it has cut into his hand, thin, sharp splinters of bone hooked into his palm. It draws his blood and absorbs it and hums.

And he knows, then, that he can't get rid of the charm. He is not frightened by this sudden, intrusive thought. It's comforting. The charm makes promises to him – promises of a full life without the twins – and all he needs to do is sate it.

* * *

Treavor, leaning against his bed, draws a deep, shaky breath through his nose and then drags the sharp edge of the knife across the inside of his forearm. He hisses and whimpers as his skin opens in the knife's wake, hot and stinging, and then he drops the knife and immediately turns his forearm over and lets his blood drip into the waiting bowl.

It is the third time he's cut himself, the third time he's collected his own blood. There is a healing cut on his palm, and another a little higher up, just above the faint creases on his wrist. The bone charm, resting beside the bowl like a witness to the blood-letting, sings to him in encouragement. He twists his lips and curls his fingers around his forearm, just below the fresh gash. The pain is unbearable, but necessary.

He stole the knife from the kitchens the morning after his dream about killing Morgan and Custis. No doubt Wallace, who is so meticulous about the abundant pieces of Pendleton silver in the home, noticed its absence and insisted some airheaded kitchen-hand be fired. Treavor feels little guilt about this.

When the first bitter tang of nausea sets in, and he begins to grow woozy, he quickly clamps a hand over the cut and slumps onto his side, trying to regain his equilibrium. The last time he cut himself, he bled so much he passed out; he was a little too unsteady with the knife. Thankfully, he came to alone. How he would explain the knife and the blood and the bone charm to some poor unfortunate servant who walked in on him, he doesn't know. But, this time, he knows where his limits are.

After everything regains its color, he wraps a makeshift bandage (a long strip of muslin, snatched from a sewing kit in Lavinia's dressing room) around his forearm and rolls down his sleeve. He takes up a lantern from his bedside table, lights it, then returns to the floor.

Under his bed, where he crawls on his stomach, he's creating.

There is a great circle on the floorboards, painted in his blood. Inside are lines that intersect and join smaller circles, cyphers from an ancient language that drowned in the early days of the city, pentacles, astronomical symbols he's stolen from one of his study books, four-pointed shapes reminiscent of compasses, curlicues and swirls and thick jagged smears.

As he stares at the blood, he's momentarily confused. He's not sure where these signs and symbols have come from, and their gravity is frightening, but his confusion quickly gives way to a twisted sense of pride. That's _his_ blood on the floor, _his_ blood painting those intricate shapes and writing out those ancient words. _His blood_.

It is a secret project that has consumed him. Ever since the dream about killing his brothers, he worked himself into a frenzy thinking about ways to put the seamless perfection of his dreams into practice. The bone charm, however, did not let him flounder. It sent him symbols and signs, and when he woke he was full of inspiration.

Now, he feels like the project is almost at a close. The bone charm needs its final adornments, and then he needs to bring Morgan and Custis into the blood-circle.

He is almost giddy thinking about it – or maybe it's the blood loss.

Nudging the lantern into place so he can see where he works, he dips his fingers into the bowl of his blood – sticky and warm, already starting to congeal – and traces a smaller, thicker circle, right at the heart of the great circle that encompasses everything. He fills this smaller circle with strange cyphers from his dream and lines that fan out like the rays of the sun.

When everything is perfect, he takes up the bone charm and lays it directly in the centre of the great circle. It sings to him, a pleased, high-pitched song of thanks. Treavor feels warm. He pours what little blood is left in the bowl over the charm, almost as an offering, and then stands. He has bled right through the muslin bandage, right through the sleeve of his shirt, so he pulls on a jacket. He is dizzy and numb. He should probably lie in bed and rest, but he can't.

He needs to find Morgan and Custis.

The twins are sparring together, downstairs. Treavor watches them through a crack in the door. They are in matching fencing outfits – padded jackets and mesh masks – and he can't tell them apart. They are moving too fast for him to gauge the tell-tale height difference. It doesn't _really_ matter, he tells himself.

He slips into the hall and moves towards them. He can hear them goading one another, their voices distorted by exertion and their masks. He feels a faint twist of envy at how _close_ they are to one another, how perfectly they exist _together_. Once, in an effort to emulate them and to be a part of their world, he asked Morgan to fence with him. Morgan, of course, took things too far and ended up collapsing the front of Treavor's protective mask with his fist and giving him two black eyes that lasted for weeks.

Treavor didn't try to bond with his brothers after that.

"Your footing is all wrong," he says, voice conspicuously loud and clear above the twins' grunting and the clattering of their foils.

They stop, faceless heads turning to him.

Panting, one of them says, "Beg your _pardon_?"

"I said, your footing is all wrong. You're terrible at this."

The twins tear off their masks simultaneously, as though feeling equal levels of incredulity. With their hair mussed and their cheeks red, it is near-impossible to tell them apart, but Treavor manages.

Custis immediately crosses to his younger brother and seizes him by the throat. "And what would _you_ know about fencing, you useless piece of shit?" he hisses.

"I know you're about as graceful as a hagfish flopping on dry land," Treavor wheezes in reply.

Behind Custis, Morgan chuckles, clearly amused.

Custis, however, is not at all amused. His eyes darken. "I should run you through with one of the sabres, baby Treavor. How would you like that, _hmm_? Would you make snide remarks about my _grace_ then?"

Treavor lashes out, catching Custis in the groin with his knee. His elder brother howls, teeth flashing in a snarl; he closes his fist around Treavor's throat and half-carries, half-drags him to the door.

"I am going to break _every_ bone in your body," Custis growls, "you pathetic little mong-_AH!_"

Treavor seizes a fistful of Custis' hair and pulls, ripping it cleanly from his scalp. Custis screams and, in his shock, drops Treavor, who barely finds his feet and scrambles away before the twin lunges for him again.

"You fucking bastard! I'm going to _murder _you! Do you hear me? You can't _fucking_ hide upstairs!" Custis yells, his voice growing fainter and fainter as Treavor races up the stairs, to his room.

Once alone, he slumps down against the door and rubs delicately at his throat. There will be bruises there, he knows, for at least a week. He gasps, raggedly, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to forget how Custis really was strangling the life out of him. He opens his fist, which remained tightly clenched all the way up from the fencing hall, and inspects the clump of Custis' hair. The strands are fine and dark, with small pale bulbs at the end where they were ripped right from the root.

Treavor grins, breathlessly, and then makes himself stand and move over to the bed.

The lantern still burns in the narrow space between the bed and the floor. The bone charm still rests in the centre of the blood-circle. The excess blood that he poured over it still remains, a symbol in its own right. With trembling fingers, he presses the clump of Custis' hair onto the bone charm, mashing it into the congealed mess of his blood.

The song of the bone charm suddenly turns dark, loud, cold. The bloody scribbles on the floor dance and whirl around the artefact. Treavor watches, hypnotized. He feels, all at once, that cold, ethereal voice that sings in that ancient tongue breathing against his ear and Custis' fingers around his throat and the hot drag of the knife in his skin.

Everything slides sideways, then, rapidly grading into blackness. He can't feel his hands, his legs, not even the floor beneath his body. He is swallowed up by the ear-splitting song of the bone charm and the oppressive cold that bites at him. Fear gnaws at him and he hunches away from the shadows that lean in towards him from the edges of his bedroom.

At some point he passes out, and in the grey haze between waking and unconsciousness, a pair of hollow black eyes – black like obsidian or fresh ink – smile at him.

* * *

For several days after that, nothing happens; but at dinner one evening, Custis is in great discomfort. His face is red, temples flexing as he grits his teeth and tries to push through whatever pain he is feeling. He refuses wine, refuses food. He is snappish and the glitter in his eyes is panicked.

Treavor watches Custis from across the table, lips slanted with a cold smirk. He wears the corrupted bone charm around his neck, having fastened it onto a piece of crude twine stolen from Wallace, and it is cold and heavy. If he wasn't so secure in the relationship he has with it, he might be frightened of it dragging him down, down, into the Void itself. The charm rests against his breastbone, in perfect alignment with his heart. The rhythm of his heart and the hum of the bone charm are indistinguishable and this, he knows, is how it has to be.

Lavinia tells Custis to have some wine.

"I don't _want_ wine!" Custis snarls, pushing away his glass with a violent swipe of his hand.

"What's wrong, darling?" their stepmother coos, fingers toying with the exquisite jewelled collar at her throat.

"I feel- I feel _dreadful_," Custis moans. He bows his head, eyes screwing shut.

"Was it the oysters at lunch?"

"No," Morgan says. "I had them too. I'm fine."

Father hums. "You've pulled something, Custis. I _told_ you and your brother to be careful when you go out riding, but will you listen to me?"

"I didn't _pull_ anything!" Custis cries, desperation bleeding into his tone. He's started sweating, profusely, and in the flickering light of the candelabra, his skin shines. Reflecting his red pallor, the droplets of sweat remind Treavor of his own blood. The thought makes the bone charm thrum against him; he makes no sign that he felt its tremor, and instead twirls the long silver fork between his fingers and eats, heartily.

"I- it _hurts_," Custis whimpers, bending at the waist and resting his head on the table. "I don't _feel good_!"

"Where?" Morgan demands, concern creasing his brow. He twists in his seat so as to look at his twin.

"_Everywhere_," Custis hisses through clenched teeth. Then, one limp hand curling around his middle, he adds, "Here. Just here."

Morgan reaches across and presses down on the right side of Custis' abdomen. The smaller twin yelps and scrambles out of his seat. He remains standing for only a moment (rapidly paling beneath the bright red flush in his face) before he collapses to his knees, shoulders heaving.

"Mother," Morgan says, eyebrows rising on his high forehead, "it feels _swollen_."

Lavinia and Father exchange a look. Then, she rises out of her chair and goes to Custis. She lays a hand on him and immediately snatches it back. "Carlton," she says, her voice low, "his skin is _burning_."

There is a thump as Custis falls onto his side. He sobs and curses and groans, and Father and Lavinia and Morgan stand over him, exchanging worried glances. Lavinia rings for the servants and barks at them to fetch cool cloths for Lord Pendleton's son; she asks Custis if he would rather lie somewhere more comfortable. He refuses to move and begs for the physician, and for laudanum. Father demands to know if any of the food is contaminated, and Lavinia tells him that if that were the case, they would _all_ be ill.

At no point does anybody look to Treavor, speak to him, or acknowledge that he is present at the dinner table.

When Custis starts vomiting, violently, forcing everybody back several steps (except for Morgan, who drops to his brother's side and says useless things like _you'll be alright Custis, just tell me what's wrong, you have to tell me what's wrong!_), Treavor grins. He presses a hand over his chest, over the bone charm's irregular form, and the charm sings to him in acknowledgement. An unspoken exchange passes between them, a deal made in blood is closed, and the shadows in the corners of the dining room bend towards him like co-conspirators.

Custis howls, clutching desperately at his right side, in-between wet, ragged sobs and violent retching. He begs for a knife, to cut out whatever is swollen and hurting inside him, and Morgan snaps at Father to _do something!_

A pair of servants – tall, strong – helps Custis to his feet and takes him to the nearest parlour. He is laid out on the sofa and Father instructs his valet to fetch the physician. "Stress to him that this is an _emergency_," Lord Pendleton intones solemnly.

Treavor finishes his meal, alone, with only one panicked-looking servant to attend to him. He asks where his family is (and his voice, he notes, is so flat and cold, it's almost unrecognizable) and he is told that they are with the physician, who is seeing Custis in the parlour. With a faint, polite smile, he saunters to the parlour. The bone charm hums against his chest, the vibrations tickling him slightly; he allows himself an indulgent giggle. His elder brother's screams carry from the parlour into the hallway, mingling with Lavinia's high-pitched hysterics.

He gently nudges open the door and watches as the family doctor, sleek and imperious in black, hunches over Custis, pressing lightly on his bare abdomen. Lavinia stands to the side, a handkerchief crumpled against her lips. Father paces, back and forth. Morgan kneels at his double's side, holding his hand, murmuring to him.

"For how long have you been experiencing the pain?" the doctor asks, speaking loudly over all the noise in the room.

Custis thrashes. "I – don't – _know_!" he grits, face contorting in agony.

"It got particularly bad earlier this evening," Morgan supplies, sparing the doctor a cursory glance.

"The vomiting came on quite quickly," Father adds, hand curled around his mouth and chin in contemplation.

Lavinia lets out a strangled sob and stumbles towards the door, as though she needs to escape all the harrowing talk. She runs into Treavor and snaps, "_Move_, you foolish child! Your brother is _sick_. Don't just stand there like a nuisance!"

Treavor lifts his chin, the corners of mouth pulled downwards in a sullen frown. He stares at Lavinia, with her sharp nose and the jewelled collar glittering at her throat, and he says, "Good. I hope Custis _dies_." His voice is so cold and dark that Lavinia blinks, confused at who this strange, hateful creature is. "I hope he dies _scared _and in _pain_," Treavor adds with a hiss. "He deserves it."

His stepmother lashes out and slaps him cleanly across the cheek. The smack of skin on skin draws the attention of Father, Morgan, and the doctor, who abandon a writhing Custis to stare, quietly. "Get out of here, you _ungrateful_ little bastard," Lavinia breathes, voice trembling. "How dare you say such a terrible, _wicked_ thing? About your own flesh and blood!" She raises her eyes and adds, tersely, "Higgins!"

Wallace, who must have appeared behind Treavor at just the right moment, says, "Yes, m'lady?"

"Take him to bed."

There is no hesitation in the manservant's voice as he replies, "Of course, m'lady. Come along, Lord Treavor."

He allows himself to be led away from the parlour, and only feels regret because he realizes he won't get to watch Custis die. He is silent on the walk to his bedroom. Once inside, Wallace lights the lanterns and says, quite casually, "Your stepmother seemed upset."

"Custis is dying," Treavor replies.

Wallace pauses, brows drawing together. "Is that what the physician said?" he asks, panic making the edges of his voice high and thin. "His lordship must be–"

"No," Treavor interrupts. "I don't know _what_ the doctor said. But I _know_ Custis is dying. He won't live through the night."

"What a morbid thing to say, Lord Treavor," Wallace admonishes softly, shaking his head. "You shouldn't speak that way about your brother."

"Why? They wish _me_ dead every day."

Wallace does not have a retort for this statement, and busies himself with setting out Treavor's pajamas and turning down his bedcovers. He moves to help the little lord undress but just as his fingers brush the collar of Treavor's shirt, the boy jumps back, hands raised defensively.

"I- I–" he stammers, eyes wide. The bone charm shrills in panic, twitching against his chest like a tiny animal caught in a trap. "I can do it, Wallace. Thank you."

The manservant dips his head. "Very good, Lord Treavor," he says, slowly. He makes for the door, turns on his heel, and offers a stiff bow at the waist. "Do let me know if you need anything else this evening."

"Good night, Wallace," Treavor says after the door shuts. He feels bad for how he reacted to Wallace's help. He didn't mean to flinch or to stumble backwards like that. Like Wallace wanted to hurt him. He just panicked. He couldn't help it.

He sighs and begins to undress. He plucks the bone charm from around his neck and holds it in his hands. It's heavy and suddenly silent, as though it only sings when it's pressed against his skin. He kisses it, only slightly mindful of the bitter metallic taste of his blood, and then places it reverently in the centre of the blood-circle beneath his bed.

He doesn't sleep, but instead sneaks around the manor and eavesdrops on his family, who have moved out of the parlour downstairs and into Custis' bedroom, adjoined to Morgan's. Pressed low against the wall, Treavor listens as words like _surgery_ and _inflammation_ are thrown about by the doctor.

Father asks if the _procedure_ will save Custis.

"I will certainly do my best, Lord Pendleton, but no surgery is a guaranteed success."

"Do what you need to," Father replies, wearily. "He is my son."

Treavor fists the front of his pajamas and scowls. Once, a long time ago, when his family went to their country estate during the winter months, he and the twins went skating on the frozen sheets of the Wrenhaven River; he fell into the water after the ice cracked beneath the violent acrobatics of his brothers. They pulled him from the water and dragged him back to Pendleton Hall. He was sick for days afterwards, faint and trembling and _cold_, his lungs filled with riverwater and his heartbeat weak.

Father reprimanded him for being so careless and skating on the thin ice, and thanked the twins for their heroics.

Now, hearing how Father does not want _his son_ to die makes Treavor mad. Fury bubbles, white hot, inside him. He clenches his jaw so tightly that his teeth groan. He thinks about the dream with Mother and the vipers, and the ethereal voice telling him about how, before him, everything was just _Morgan and Custis_ and nobody else. And how his birth, and his thriving, was abhorrent to the twins.

He was unwanted, unloved, and barely tolerated then, and he is unwanted, unloved, and barely tolerated now.

Phantom stinging where Lavinia slapped him earlier pricks at his cheek, and he feels tears well in his eyes. He slinks back to his room and cuts at himself more furiously, feeds his blood to the bone charm more desperately, determined to end Custis' life _tonight_.

Hours later, he is drowsy and limp with blood loss, but awake. Outside his room, the manor is silent. He swipes his hands, blood-crusted, on his thighs and ventures into the hallway. The air is filled with the tang of something medicinal, a smell that he knows all too well. There is a faint trace of blood there, too, and the sour odour of sweat, and the acidic bite of vomit.

There is murmuring coming from Custis' room. The door is slightly ajar and, inside, the room is dark. Treavor recognizes Morgan's silhouette, hunched by Custis' bedside. At the creak of the door, and the wash of faint yellow light from the hallway lamps, Morgan's head snaps up. "What do you want?" he demands, voice rough and raw with sleep.

"Is he dead?" Treavor asks, unable to help the hopeful thread that laces his words. He imagines Morgan's red-rimmed eyes, and how desperately he clutches Custis' cold hand, refusing to draw himself away. He imagines Morgan won't let anybody near his twin, like a faithful dog who doesn't understand that his master is dead.

Perhaps, Treavor wonders, lips curling, Morgan will die shortly after that, unable to function without his other half.

Morgan rubs at his eyes and yawns. "What?" he growls. "Do you think I would be here if he was _dead_?" Then he sighs and adds, with an uncharacteristic streak of tenderness in his words, "No. He's- he's fine."

Treavor feels like he's just been kicked in the gut. He blinks, fists clenching at his sides. "_What?_" he hisses.

Morgan mistakes his tone for confusion, maybe thinking that he didn't hear correctly. "He had his appendix out," he elaborates, patiently. "It was inflamed or some such thing. Nothing we could have _known_ would happen. He's just got to rest now and heal up. The doctor will spend some more time with him tomorrow."

Custis, limp and bundled tightly in the bedsheets, stirs. He mumbles something incoherent. His arm, trembling, lifts itself and blindly flicks out. Morgan catches it by the wrist and holds his double's hand against his chest. "Stop moving, you twit, you're going to hurt yourself," he chides, tone light.

"_You're_ the twit," Custis slurs, faintly, voice raw. He shifts on the bed again, groans softly, and is still once more.

"Get out of here," Morgan says sharply, making a shooing motion at Treavor.

Treavor does not need to be told twice. He turns on his heel and leaves, shutting the door behind him. He trembles from head to toe as he pads lightly back to his room. Once there, he begins to pace, wildly. His mind moves with the force of a hundred thoughts at once, each more violent and intrusive than the last.

Custis is _alive_. How is this possible? _Why_ is this so? He can't fathom it, doesn't understand it. Custis was supposed to _die_. He _was_ dying – in such great pain, too – but now he's not; he's _alive_ and he'll be _fine_, according to Morgan.

Everything is falling apart. Everything was for _nothing_. Treavor throws himself to the floor and crawls under his bed and snatches up the bone charm from the blood-circle. He squeezes his fingers around its hard, ugly form and then hurls it across the room with a shout. The charm hits the wall with a loud crack, but it does not break.

Instead, he feels a sharp pain in his chest. As sharp as the crack of the charm against the wall. He can't breathe, and falls to his knees, winded. He whimpers, on the verge of tears, and he realizes that the bone charm just _punished_ him. Hiccupping wetly, he limps over to where the charm lies on the floor. Its song is no longer soothing or kind, but dark and mean. A threat. His ears are filled with the frightening vortex of noise until he begs for the charm to _stop, please, stop, I'm sorry, I'M SORRY!_

* * *

Wallace checks in on Custis and Morgan on his final rounds through the manor. Lord and Lady Pendleton have gone to bed, but he knows that Morgan has not left his brother's side since the physician retired for the night (Lord Pendleton insisted he take a room, just in case). The manservant is still disturbed by the incoherent mumbling of Custis, his voice thick beneath the morphine that floods his veins, about how he is no longer whole, how he and Morgan are not the same anymore.

He shakes his head, clearing the thoughts away. As he passes Treavor's room, he hears shouting. He squares his shoulders (heavy after such a long day of work) and enters the little lord's bedroom. And then he exhales in relief because Treavor is only having a night terror. He's had one or two before, episodes where he's screamed and thrashed in his sleep. Nothing too serious. Wallace knows to place a soothing hand on his forehead and rouse him and reassure him.

A lantern still burns, faintly, on the bedside table, illuminating the bed where Treavor writhes, fists clenching on the mattress, legs kicking beneath the bedcovers. His jaw is tight, cords and tendons jutting out on his thin neck.

His spine arches, violently, and he lets out a strangled groan of pain. "You _lied_ to me!" he spits.

Wallace balks, frozen in place. "M'lord, I–" he begins, but then he realizes the boy is not speaking to _him_.

"I gave you _everything_!" Treavor continues through clenched teeth. "I cut myself and bled all over it! And for _what_?!"

Wallace rushes to the boy's bedside and stares down at him, brow knitted in confusion. Who is Treavor talking to? What _blood_ is he referring to?

Treavor begins crying then, his face reddening. He turns his cheek against his pillow and mumbles, "Y-you promised he would _die_."

"No," Wallace breathes, disbelieving, not daring to lay his hand on the boy. Is he referring to- he couldn't _possibly_ mean- He shifts closer to the bed, watching as Treavor sobs and writhes and mumbles, and then the toe of his shoe hits something light but firm. A small porcelain dish, he notices. He bends to pick it up off the floor and then the bitter tang of salt and metal, and the sickly sweet scent of old blood, makes his nose wrinkle.

He frowns and peers into the dish, maybe thinking that Treavor hurt himself and _that's_ what he's referring to when he talked about cutting himself and bleeding. Inside, the bowl is coated in sticky darkness; some of it is dried to thin flakes and other, thicker parts of it are still rather wet.

_Blood_.

But that's not where the stench is coming from. It lingers in a bitter cloud under Treavor's bed. Wallace is not _too_ surprised by this: once, Morgan and Custis took half a dozen hares collected during one of Lord Pendleton's rabbiting excursions at Pendleton Hall, and stuffed them under Treavor's bed. It was a few days at least until the stench of their rotten little bodies became so unbearable that Treavor's room was stripped down, and the twisted, mangled corpses were discovered in a little heap on the floorboards.

There are, however, no dead animals beneath Treavor's bed.

Instead, all Wallace can see (in what faint lantern light manages to spill from the bedside table to the narrow space) are shapes – lines, some thick, some thin, circles, stars, strange smears, little squiggles – painted onto the floorboards.

Frowning, Wallace takes up the lantern and pushes it beneath Treavor's bed. For a moment, the sudden burst of light in the otherwise dark and cramped space is overwhelming, and then the light settles. He sees it when his eyes regain focus: the blood-circle. Granted most of the blood is dried and brown, and some of it is faded in parts where it has soaked into the wood, but it is hard to ignore its tell-tale aroma of salt and metal.

It is equally hard to ignore the bone charm, blood congealing on its hard little body, which rests in pride of place at the centre of the blood-circle.

Above him, Treavor thrashes on the mattress.

Wallace curses and scrambles back from the bone charm and the heretical markings, lest he be somehow tainted by his proximity to them. Heart racing, breath coming in short, sharp pants, he stares at Treavor, who is still asleep, but who also continues to shout and thrash and kick out at unseen foes.

Treavor, the little lord for whom Wallace has always had something of a soft spot. The forgotten Pendleton son, who trails Wallace on his rounds through the manor because nobody else wants to have anything to do with him. The lonely, frightened child whose own flesh and blood makes him physically ill.

_Treavor has been practicing black magic._

Treavor has been practicing black magic, and he may have tried to _kill Custis_ through the rituals, but something went wrong and now he's upset and he'll probably try again to murder his brother.

The thought is so heavy, so utterly _terrifying_, that Wallace refuses to grasp it clearly. He shakes his head, blinks his eyes, as though that will change the scene laid out under Treavor's bed. But his eyes return again and again to the bone charm and the blood and the shapes painted onto the floorboards.

Wallace is unsure how he should proceed. Does he take up the bone charm and have it destroyed? Does he scrub beneath Treavor's bed and clear away all the blood? Does he confront Treavor about the whole thing? If so, would Treavor try and kill _him_ too?

He stands and goes to Treavor's bedside. The boy is grey, his eyes ringed in bruise-colored shadows. He's grown thin over the last few days, and has been rather listless. His tremors have been more pronounced, his fits coming on more violently and more frequently. Wallace curses himself for not being more attentive to Treavor, for not recognizing that something was _wrong_. Gently, he lifts Treavor's arm and holds it to the lantern light for inspection. There, on the palm of his hand, are several small cuts in various states of healing; and further up, under his loose sleeve, are pale scars on his wrist, his forearm…

Wallace flinches as Treavor jerks his arm away. Thankfully, the boy does not wake up, but merely rolls over and burrows down into the bedcovers. He growls and hisses and cries, and Wallace finds he doesn't want – is _unable_ – to comfort him.

Tears of confusion and, yes, fright prick at Wallace's eyes. He hastily blinks them away, forces himself to regain his composure, and then he leaves. He shuts Treavor's door and straightens the cuffs of his jacket, and continues through the manor, trying very desperately to push the sight of the bloody bone charm from his mind's eye.

* * *

Treavor stands in the Void, at the feet of the Outsider, which towers over him, its form large and shadowed and indistinct. He curses at the Outsider and thrashes in anger, and the eldritch deity weathers the young lord's fury with patience befitting such an ancient being. Its eyes, as dark and fathomless as pits, betray no reaction, no emotion – only serenity and timelessness.

"What went _wrong_?!" Treavor demands. He holds up a helpless hand and adds, "_I_ _did everything right! _I followed the ritual, I gave up my blood, I did _everything right_ – and he's alive! He's _alive! WHY_!?"

As he talks – _barks_ – at the Outsider, he paces on the spur of rock that juts out of the emptiness and puts him at the being's feet. All around him, the Void roils and swirls, cold and inhospitable. He can feel phantom fingers, hooks, pulling at him, threatening to drag him into the abyss. He knows, too, that it is a display of power by the Outsider, meant to frighten him. He is far too angry to be scared.

"I _want_ my brothers _dead_," Treavor spits. He jabs an accusing finger at the Outsider. "You promised me they would be dead! You- you_showed_ me how to kill them! I did _everything_ you asked!" He rubs idly at his wrists, then lifts a hand and holds up the corrupted bone charm, which thrums and sings and whines, high-pitched and desperate, in the presence of the Outsider. "This- this _lied_ to me! _You_ lied to me! _Lies! LIES!_ I want Morgan and Custis _dead_! I _want_ what I was _promised_!"

A voice speaks to Treavor then, a voice so great that the anger inside him wilts in terror. The voice comes from everywhere, from the furthest reaches of the Void, and from inside his own head, speaking directly into his ear as one might to a lover. The voice is cold and full, making the spur of rock quiver and jolt, but it is also passive, save for a faint streak of amusement that one might save for the dying struggles of an insect crushed underfoot:

_Are you quite finished, Treavor Pendleton?_

He balks, legs suddenly stiff. He blinks up at the deity, who resolves its features into those resembling a young man with closely-cropped dark hair and a jaw set like fine Tyvian marble. Arms, long and strong-looking, fold themselves across a broad chest and pale, beringed hands peek into view.

A faint, ghostly smirk pulls at the corner of the Outsider's lips. It is fleeting, almost like a facial tic, though it lingers in its hollow black eyes. It cocks its head to the side, bird-like, and says, _The first breath you ever drew was laced with entitlement. You nobles truly believe in your own importance. It would be amusing, if it wasn't so tiresome._

_Have you ever seen death, Treavor Pendleton?_

Treavor shakes his head, suddenly very numb. He doesn't like the way those hollow black eyes stare at him, stare _through_ him, pin him to the rock and dissect him.

_I have carried countless souls through the Void, thuggish sons born to diseased prostitutes and overbred gentry who would open their own veins if only to prove the blueness of their blood. And do you know what? At the very end, when the darkness is rapidly closing in and their heartbeats become little more than a distant memory, they all looked the same._

_Empty shells made of blackened guts and sallow flesh._

_This, Treavor Pendleton, is what you fail to remember. You mean nothing to me. You are not special; you are but one mote in the grand play between chaos and order. I am an infinite number of things you couldn't possibly grasp with your singular, mortal mind. I have power beyond your comprehension, far more than those silly litanies and prayer books can describe._

_And yet _you_ demand of _me_ why I don't bend to the wishes of a petulant, angry, _cowardly_ little aristocratic brat?_

Treavor flinches beneath the verbal barbs. He's overwhelmed by his situation. He hates the way the Outsider stares at him. Tears threaten to fall from his eyes but he quickly blinks them back. He's supposed to be _angry_ and _in charge_, not this snivelling heap.

_Does my honesty upset you? Would you rather I lavished high praise upon you for your blood rituals? _the Outsider mocks, leaning in to better peer at the little lord. _Since man first became aware of my existence, I have had terrible things done in my name. Murder. Genocide. The razing of entire cities. Desperate actions by men hungry for but a sliver of my attention._

_And you think that I will bow to your wishes because you gave yourself a few papercuts?_

A limp flare of indignation rises in Treavor. He squares his shoulders beneath the unwavering gaze of the Outsider. "I just did as you asked," he says, voice cracking. "I- I didn't know what _else_ to do!" He curls a fist and the healing wounds on his palm sting. "I thought- I thought… Custis got _sick_, he was _dying_, I thought everything was alright, I thought you were _happy_…"

He grits his teeth and cries. He feels like he's weathering one of Father's lectures. He feels small and useless and _pathetic_. Not even the corrupted bone charm, which made him feel strong and powerful, can help him. With a snarl, he flings it into the Void. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, relishing the bright colors that explode behind his eyelids, and sobs through clenched teeth. His knees buckle and he hits the rockface with a grunt.

All the while, he can feel the black eyes of the Outsider on him.

_Your cowardice is one of your most marked traits, Treavor Pendleton. It sets you apart from your brothers far more than anything else. They wanted you dead, so they tried to kill you with their bare hands. And you come across an ancient charm that you don't understand, and you believe it grants you the privilege to hide behind my skirts and order me to fight your fights for you._

_You conduct your revenge in secret, hiding your plans, stashing away ornaments and fingerpaintings. I watched you think that you were creating something wonderful, that you would somehow be interesting to me, but all _I_ saw was a child trying and _failing_ to please me. You wanted your brother dead; yet, he lived. What does that tell you about your efforts, Treavor Pendleton?_

Treavor winces, tears sliding down his cheeks. He doesn't dare look at the Outsider, for fear of being confronted with that mocking smirk. The words sting him and hurt him but they're _true_. What did he hope to accomplish, exactly? What did think would happen after Custis died? He bows his head and hugs himself and thinks on all the fantasies he indulged where Father focused on _him_ and loved _him_, and Morgan was his _friend_, and Lavinia didn't _slap_ him and call him a _nuisance_. A happy life founded on Custis' blood.

The Outsider is right – he _is_ a coward. A small, bratty, _childish_ coward. And a failure. He can't even kill his own brother. He can't do _anything_right. He mentally chides himself for being so _stupid_ and _gullible_ and for thinking that he deserved any semblance of happiness that came from such _low_ actions. He is gripped by momentary fear about the Abbey finding out about the blood-circle and the bone charms, about the overseers being called to Pendleton Manor and taking him away, and Father letting them because he is _nothing_.

He tries to make himself smaller, a speck, a _mote_ (to use the Outsider's phrasing), upon the spur of rock.

And then, he has a thought. In a small, cracked voice he says, "But- but you appeared to me now. Even though I- I'm a-a _failure_, you s-still came to me." He swallows, thickly, and sniffles. "Right?"

The Void wavers with a deep exhale, and the Outsider turns its depthless eyes to the unending stretch of cosmos that hangs overhead. _Your brothers' cruelty will only grow as they get older_, it sighs. _They will become so tangled in each other's existence that everybody else will be reduced to nothing. Mere morsels to sate their avaricious appetites._

Treavor bites back a whimper. The tone of the Outsider's voice, while unthreatening, fills him with dread.

_But their behaviour will not go unpunished. In time, the consequences – and their corruptibility – will catch up with them. They will die, and though it will not be by your hand, your urging will be behind the blade that cuts short their lives._

_That will be the end of the beloved Pendleton heirs, the future of the great, ancient family, the golden children for whom the entirety of the Isles has been laid out as a banquet to be ravished. And so, your family line, Treavor Pendleton, will end with _you_._

Treavor allows himself to feel the warmth of hope. He gazes into the passive face of the Outsider, fixes his eyes on those fathomless black pits that yawn into the very beginning of time. He no longer feels the cold wind of the Void, or the foreboding sense of the overwhelming that crowds around him and threatens to crush him.

He feels as he did when he found the first bone charm: timeless and ethereal. The Outsider's words are comforting and he feels the tentative buds of hunger and privilege begin to grow inside him. The knowledge that the twins will die – that the mantle of _Lord of Pendleton Manor_will pass to him in time – makes him quietly giddy. The knowledge that the twins will be killed – _punished_ – for their cruelty is reassuring. More than that, the knowledge that _he_ will urge the assassin to act, that _he_ will order their deaths, feeds the more vengeful parts of him.

Not everything is lost, it seems. Treavor must simply learn to be patient.

The Outsider cocks its head, black eyes unblinking. Its bloodless lips slant with a faint smirk.

And Treavor smiles in return.

* * *

When he wakes, he feels heavy and muddled. He does his best to refrain from scratching at the bloody scabs on the inside of his forearm. He closes his eyes and a pair of black, hollow eyes stares back at him, an indelible burn on his retinas. He lies in bed until Wallace comes in to wake him up and open the curtains.

Conversation is sparse between the two. Wallace looks utterly exhausted, and Treavor is too wrapped up in his own thoughts to manage more than a limp nod in the manservant's direction. Then, he asks, "How is Custis?"

Wallace's eyes dart away but quickly return to the little lord's gaze. "He is doing well, Lord Treavor," he replies evenly.

Treavor nods, thoughtfully. "I'm- glad to hear that. Father must be relieved."

"I believe so."

Treavor allows himself to think on the crippling feelings of stupidity and uselessness he experienced in his dream with the Outsider, and then he shakes his head and clears the thoughts away. He reminds himself that, yes, he is a coward and, yes, he is small and pathetic, but he is also patient. And the Outsider has promised that his patience will be rewarded.

Wallace hesitates, waiting for further instruction (or a dismissal) but at Treavor's continuing silence, he simply steps forward and begins to lay out the boy's clothing for the day. "Would you like some help, m'lord?" he asks, slowly.

"Yes. Please."

Relief washes over Wallace. The dark rings around Treavor's eyes are already beginning to fade in the daylight, and he has a little more color in his cheeks. Last night…

Last night does not warrant thinking about, Wallace decides.

After helping Treavor to dress, he combs the boy's hair and sets it tidily, with a straight parting on the side. Treavor reaches for his hand, small fingers curling around his wrist. "Wallace," he begins, and then halts.

"Yes, Lord Treavor?"

"I… I can trust you, can't I?"

Wallace's brows draw together. "Of course you can, m'lord," he says quickly.

"And you- you won't judge me, will you? About anything I tell you, or show you, right?"

A thin, tense knot pits itself in the manservant's stomach, but he schools his features into calm attentiveness. "No, m'lord, I won't judge you. It's not my place." He wets his lips and adds, "I like to think that I am a confidant of yours, Lord Treavor."

The boy nods, absently. He fingers the collar of his embroidered waistcoat and says, his voice barely above a whisper, "I have something to show you, Wallace, and it- it needs to stay between us. Nobody else can know about it. I need your help getting rid of it and I- please don't judge me. _Please_."

Wallace fights to keep his voice level as he replies, "You have my word, Lord Treavor."

Treavor peers at him through the mirror's reflection and then regards himself. Then, he nods. He takes Wallace's hand and leads him to the unmade bed. He refuses to stand close to it and he toes, idly, at the lip of the plush footrug. "Under my bed," he mumbles, "I have a- a bone charm. It's a terrible thing, Wallace. I-I _found_ it, in the water, a long time ago, and I kept it here. I–" He grows pale and begins to tremble. Tears well in his eyes and his throat clenches. "I tried to do rituals with it, Wallace. I cut my hand, here," he continues, holding up his scarred palm in demonstration, "and I p-painted things on the floor with my blood. I- I wish I _hadn't_ but I did and I- I regret it, very much so."

Wallace considers telling Treavor that he already knows, but the boy seems genuinely ashamed and frightened, so he holds his tongue and simply listens.

"I- I tried to _hurt_ Custis, Wallace, i-it's _my _fault he almost died–"

"A ruptured appendix is _not_ your fault," Wallace interrupts sharply, but he allows himself to think on whether the fact that the blood rituals and the ruptured appendix occurred together is a mere coincidence or something more.

Treavor's shoulders heave and he squeezes his eyes shut. "It _is_ my fault," he grits through his teeth. Then, he draws a shuddering breath and adds, "But I- I don't want the charm anymore, Wallace. I want to get rid of it. And I want- I want the things I painted on the floor cleaned up. Please. _Please_." He bows his head and weeps into his hands.

Wallace closes his eyes in relief, and he thanks the stars that Treavor has come to his senses. He lays a hand on the boy's shoulder, then crouches down and stares up at him. "I- I won't tell anybody about this, Lord Treavor," he says, voice low. "You have my word on that. Let's get the bone charm out of the manor and once it is destroyed–"

Treavor flinches at the word.

"–then I will come up here and- and clean the floor. I don't know how well blood will come up but perhaps I can find some varnish and paint over the- the things you marked out." He lifts Treavor's chin, lightly, and watches, heart aching, as two fat tears roll down the boy's pale cheeks. "How does that sound?"

"G-good," Treavor mumbles, nodding weakly. He wipes his eyes on the back of his hand and offers Wallace a faint, grateful smile. "Thank you," he breathes. "I- I knew I could rely on you, Wallace."

"Always, Lord Treavor."

Wallace moves the bed, exposing the bone charm and the blood-circle to the warm rays of daylight that spear through the windows.

Treavor feels an instinctual stab of anxiety as he realizes that the bone charm is silent. There are no more songs for him, no more reassuring thrums and assenting hums. The corners of his lips drag downwards but he quickly rids himself of the frown, lest Wallace sees it. The manservant takes his jacket and bundles the bone charm away; he is careful not to let it touch his bare skin.

"I'll be back, m'lord," he says, tucking the rolled-up jacket under his arm. "Don't let anybody else in here until I've- until I've _dealt_ with that," he adds, jerking his chin at the blood-circle.

"Yes, Wallace," Treavor says, nodding emphatically.

The manservant leaves, closing the door very carefully behind him. Treavor stares after him and then moves to the bed. He sits on the edge, eyes drifting to the blood-circle on the floorboards. Exposed, in the light, it looks much smaller. Skewed in some places. Crude and childish. He chuckles quietly to himself.

Then, listening carefully for any sounds in the hallway, he stands and moves over to the windows. He looks out across the gardens of Pendleton Manor. He half-expects to see a spiralling staircase twisting into the Void, or the shape of a great leviathan hanging, immobile, in the air. Instead, all he can see is the doctor being ferried into his waiting railcar at the gates.

He returns to his bed, lifts the corner of his mattress, and slides his hand into the cool gap. His fingers seek out a hard, slim form nestled safely in crushed velvet and smooth satin. When he finally finds the pouch, crafted from one of Lavinia's favourite jackets (she fired her lady's maid when it was noted missing from her wardrobe), he exhales in relief.

Sliding to his knees, he opens the pouch and stares at the smooth, perfect form of the bone charm. He dips his fingers into the pouch and brushes the artefact, lightly, reverently. Calm washes over him. He can forget all about the blood rituals and the corrupted charm with its ugly wire and leather, and for that he is grateful.

All he needs to survive is patience, which the bone charm (nestled in purple velvet and satin) evokes in him. He thinks on the Outsider's words – on how his brothers will be punished, how he will be the end, the heir, of the Pendleton line – and he smiles, quietly, and crushes the charm against his chest.

It sings to him, a beautiful, enchanting song that makes him think of yawning blue abysses and a pair of hollow black eyes that smirk at him, amused and rather fascinated.


End file.
